Chiaroscuro: The Tale of Sora Bulq
by SurferSquid
Summary: The decline and fall of the co-creator of Vaapad.


Tales From the Battle of Geonosis

Chiaroscuro: The Tale of Sora Bulq

"Are you ready, my Padawan?"

These Jedi starfighters are new and curious things. Sora must admit that although he has no inborn inclination toward piloting, and is not as given to things mechanical as some of the other Jedi (such as that impetuous Anakin Skywalker who always gets himself into so much trouble in or out of the Temple; it seems Kenobi has been taking a file or two from Skywalker's datapad lately), there comes a certain thrill in being master of one's own craft zipping through the stars with something of a carefree abandon. He _is_ the ship, and he holds the power to decide the fate of anything captured in his targeting display.

Not that even a hint of this is betrayed in his voice, his level tone as calculated and taut as the stretched-leather-brown skin on his deep-furrowed face which has never once smiled or frowned. _There is no emotion, there is peace_ is far more than a trite maxim for him; it is a way of life. Serenity is such a useful trait. Once one has mastered impassivity, it becomes a highly effective mask.

"Ready as ever, Master," comes the adolescent reply chirping over the comm.

Galdos Stouff was assigned to Sora a mere month ago and Sora is still trying to figure out how to best approach the Human lad, how to mold him into the Jedi Knight the boy must become. To teach a teenager peace is a task akin to attempting to halt the traffic on Coruscant; Sora has shied away from that responsibility for the time being, and focused on something most young males of any species are much more readily willing to understand: lightsaber combat.

Only thirty-five days into their partnership and Sora has already begun to weave the weft-threads of lightsaber forms in and out of the warp of Stouff, teaching him their differences as part of one coherent whole, immersing him in the rich theory of the art in the hopes of producing, at the end of a long and fruitful association—a warrior. Much like Sora himself, but with one exception.

Sora has not taught Stouff anything of Vaapad.

He regards Stouff's mind as too puerile, too weak, and already too conditioned by the philosophies of Stouff's former and fallen master to fully appreciate the form. If Stouff were to learn about this new and exotic ideology, he would most likely recoil in misunderstanding—might even betray the form to Sora's fellow Masters, out of whom only Windu was open-minded enough to assist in crafting the style. (Sora believes, however, that if he had a fresh mind to work with, he would experiment with injecting some Vaapad into it.)

For Vaapad is a secret entity—perhaps even a sacred one, although Sora is loathe to call things "sacred" lest veneration devolve into the moronic totemism of his own species, which he was high-minded enough to rise above. Vaapad is certainly an elite form, one only able to be handled by the strongest of minds, those who know how to dance on the edge of shadow without slipping. And Sora considers himself to have a very strong mind, indeed, and a sure footing on the light. What better way, he rationalizes to himself, is there to defeat darkness than to understand it? And if some of its elements could be turned to the advantage of the light—well then, that is all the better, is it not? His brethren and sisters in the Order have their misgivings about such things, so perhaps it is best if they stay down in their cradles puttering about with the Light Side. Sora has taken it upon himself to seek out all knowledge, even that held by the darkness; to graft shadow onto light.

"There it is, Master—Geonosis," Stouff points out excitedly; even though the boy is not physically present, Sora can sense his anticipation, Stouff's fighter hovering behind Sora's own, always eager to follow in the Weequay's footsteps—or ion trails, as the case might be. The dusty, red, rock-ringed world looms below them, the vessels of other Jedi already beginning to vanish into pinpoints ahead. Sora does not quite know what this rescue mission will entail, but the Force is telling him this will not be as easy as it looks. The anti-orbital cannon fire suddenly spewing death into the squadrons backs up that prophecy.

Soon, he promises himself, he will be able to taste darkness again.

Battles are never pretty things, all chaos and noise and the stench of dying and hate, so much hate. The participants in this fracas are far from the norm, to be sure, but the battle droids, although they are not sentient, are still imbued with all of the callous animosity of their contractors, and quite a good number of the younger and weaker Jedi are letting their benevolence slip in favor of maximizing efficiency (they find it difficult to be empathetic toward unthinking machines anyhow).

Instead of struggling against this fervor, Sora revels in it, although from outward appearances one would never guess. With each fierce strike, every relentless slicing blow, he breathes out the most infinitesimal bit of his tenebrous fury—not enough to be consumed by it, but sufficient to be able to temper it into the bite of his livid viridian lightsaber. Vaapad lives and moves in him; he is its creator; he is its commander.

A panicked cry sounds from the other side of the arena—Sora pulls his blade out of the chassis of a droid and whips his head around, his dark braids streaming behind him like fluttering sable war-banners, in time to see Stouff fall to his knees, clutching his chest.

Whoever has said that Jedi know not compassion has never been witness to the inexpressible Force-forged bond between Master and Padawan.

Immediately Sora matches his speed and tenacity with that of the rampaging reek just meters away, letting out a deep, sonorous bellow that dares these mere machines to challenge his wrath. They come in droves, some aiming for him, some on their way to aim for someone else, but he cuts them down all the same, vaulting over their smouldering remains until at last he touches down on the unforgiving dry dirt where lies his Padawan, forgotten as the droids move on to other kills.

Stouff is struggling for breath, and Sora cradles the Human's head in his arms, smoothing back his sweat-drenched red hair. Sora is not normally given to such tenderness, but in his mind Stouff has ceased to be a Jedi and is now merely a young victim of circumstances beyond his control. How easily this massacre could have been avoided, Sora thinks, if the Republic had not been blind to the corruption in its own ranks. Now the galaxy has become bereft of scores of its finest and most valiant protectors. That rankles him to a degree he did not think possible, and a flash of a scowl crosses his eternally-placid umber eyes.

The pale-faced boy looks up at his master, resigned to the fact that his time is short; his hazel gaze is fast losing its fire. "Did—did I make good, Master?" he chokes hopefully.

That was all Stouff ever wanted, Sora realizes: to make a difference, to make things better. But the Master does not know what to tell the Padawan—there is no "better", not so long as the blind lead the seeing. A moment of searching, and then he stares hard at Stouff's fading expression. "No," he growls frankly, the horrible answer carrying far more stress than he intended it to. "You have failed, my Padawan." The Weequay pauses to throw out the Force at a stray droid who decided to investigate the moment—it smashes against the arena wall and lays silent. "You have failed because the Republic has failed _you_."

Stouff's countenance changes from hope to heartbreak, and he leaves to join the Force with that look of despair still marring his innocent visage.

As for Sora, he has gone back into the fray to defend his fellow Jedi as best he can, although what he really wants to defend them from now is not necessarily the current hail of laser fire, but their chronic miserable situation as unwitting and overzealous pawns of a perfidious administration. At the sight of each of life ending, he witnesses how what had once been his own combat training has been softened and polluted by bending to the whims of domineering Republic taskmasters, until it is no longer the supremely crafted technique he intended it to be. No one should tell the Jedi when and what and how to fight, he seethes as the sorry remnants of the strike force are herded together helplessly. That is the duty of the Jedi, and the Jedi alone. Why can't even the Council recognize this?

He is glad when his gunship is sent hurtling down in a blaze of smoke and fire (he never liked the clones anyway), glad for the pain he bears that reminds him of the senseless suffering in the arena and allots him his fair due (or perhaps far less—he feels keenly the survivor's guilt). Let the Council think he is dead; he discovers he can work better for the Jedi from outer dusk than in the oppressive midday spotlight of the ever-watchful Republic.

And when he confronts Dooku, Sora knows he has finally found someone who thinks as he does, who does not deal in absolutes. The decision to abandon the light comes all too easy, and all too welcomed. No longer is prudish restraint necessary in his beloved Vaapad; now Sora is free to unleash the full might of his ferocity upon all who fail to see the truth.

Sora Bulq danced on the edge of shadow, and did not slip, but dove in headlong.


End file.
